


How Captain finally got some sleep

by KByrd



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KByrd/pseuds/KByrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America is having trouble sleeping. Maybe Natasha has an idea?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Captain finally got some sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote a while ago so it doesn't really fit in with anything else I've written more recently. Just thought I'd post it to see what people think.

How Captain finally got some sleep

It’s a cliché to say that it gets confusing in the midst of battle.

Amidst the smoke, the noise, the flashes, the explosions, the sheer physical exertion of battle, Steve kept his eyes and ears open tracking his partner. He threw a roundhouse punch and sent his last opponent flying into a wall to lie unconscious and non-threatening.

Steve paused, taking in the ebb and flow of the battle. His team seemed to be winning. No other bad guys were anywhere near him.

He peered over the edge of the rooftop he was on and picked out Natasha fighting with one more guy. Several other bodies were scattered around.

He put his shield on his back and jumped down to the next level.

He was in no rush. As far as he could see, the battle was winding down and he knew that Natasha would not appreciate interference.

He peered over the next edge again. Natasha’s opponent was losing badly and backing away. Suddenly, there was a fierce scream. Natasha ducked. Something above her head exploded in a shower of sparks and shards and drops of liquid.

Steve sped up. He jumped the four storeys or so from his perch to the alley between the buildings, landing hard. He paused, cursing the shock of pain in one knee. He might be stronger, faster, more durable than anyone else, but he wasn’t indestructible.

Natasha’s opponent, her last sparring partner was running away, screaming. Steve grabbed his shield off his back, but before he could throw it, the runner crashed into a smoking barrel and horrifyingly burst into flames.

Steve wasted no time investigating. Instead, he sprinted around the corner and found Natasha picking herself up from a puddle of silvery liquid.

“Don’t come any closer,” she yelled, holding up a hand. She was peeling off one glove and throwing it to the ground.

He skidded to a stop.

“It's some kind of acid,” she explained, furiously peeling off the second glove. Indeed the glove on the ground was giving off an ominous hiss and a smell.

“Here, come away from there,” Steve urged, grabbing her elbow despite her protests. He led her swiftly to a safer, more secluded spot.  
He peered around the corner, checking out the quiet street scene just a block away. It was getting dark as the sun had slipped behind the buildings. The battle had been swift and deadly, but apparently had passed by so quickly that civilians in the street were oblivious. He spoke into the communicator on his wrist.

“Status report?”

Clint’s voice answered, clear and calm. “Battle looks over, bad guys dispersed, target nowhere to be seen.”

“I left a guy unconscious on top of the bank building,” Steve reported.

“Poor fellow.”

“And Romanoff left a crowd at the foot of the bank building,” he added, glancing over at her. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“I can’t be worrying about modesty right now,” she snarled at him, in the process of unzipping her catsuit and peeling it off. “The bloody suit’s on fire.” 

It was indeed smoking …

He paused and then spoke again into the communicator. “And Romanaff has had a … equipment malfunction. She might need .. uh?”  
“Shall I send medical?” Clint asked.

Natasha grabbed at Steve’s wrist. “Negative, negative,” she snapped. “I do NOT need medical.”

“Err, no,” Steve muttered. “But there’s an acid spill. Might want to investigate. Over and out.”

Natasha used her knife to slash the leg of her suit just above her boot and stepped out of the suit. 

Steve had a glimpse of practical black underwear before he looked away, chastising himself for conduct unbecoming.

Natasha kicked the pile of steaming, smoking, hissing, quickly disintegrating fabric away. “That’s some nasty stuff,” she said coolly.

“That other guy, the one you were fighting, burst into flame,” Steve responded, still averting his eyes.

“Sooner I get rinsed off, the better,” she agreed.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Here.” He handed her his shield and then began unfastening the complicated set of clasps and buttons on one side of his uniform. He wasn’t overly fond of this version of the suit; it was hot and inflexible and tended to stick to his bare skin. It was also in one piece which meant putting it on and taking if off was often a lot like struggling to get into a too-small wet suit.

With some difficulty, he struggled to get his arms out of the top part of his fighting suit.

“What are _you_ doing,” Natasha asked. “Sympathy strip?”

Under his suit, Steve wore a simple waffle-weave long-sleeve undershirt. He peeled it off and handed it to her. It was slightly damp, which couldn’t be helped, but it would cover her pretty well.

Natasha pulled it on. “Thanks.”

He risked a glance at her. 

She peered around the alley alertly. “There’s a hotel over there,” she pointed.

“Right,” he agreed. “Let’s go see if they have showers.” He glanced at her again. “Pretty standard now, right?”

She looked amused as she often did with him. 

The sun was dipping below the horizon and the street lights were popping on one by one.

They strode into the hotel lobby. Steve tried not to consider how bizarre they looked, him with his bare torso and the top part of his suit hanging carelessly from his waist; her wearing nothing but boots and his oversized shirt with the sleeves pushed up. They were both sweaty and dirty, not to mention a bit bloody.

He could, of course, have pulled the suit up to cover his nakedness, but it would have been a struggle and he hated how the new high tech material stuck to his skin.

Instead, he decided just to brazen it out.

He approached the counter and pulled out a credit card. “Can we have a room,” he asked politely. “With a shower?”

The clerk did not recognize him. He peered at them with narrowed eyes. “We don’t rent rooms by the hour,” he snickered in a reedy voice.

Steve summoned his inner Thor and leaned over the counter in his most threatening posture. “Don’t impugn the lady’s honour,” he growled. “Do you, or do you _not_ have a room available?”

The clerk cowered, but the manager appeared behind him, looking apologetic and worried. “Of course we have a room, sir,” the manager said swiftly. “Here, here’s the key, second floor. You can fill out the paperwork later.”

Steve took the key and nodded. “Thank you.”

They marched off with Natasha looking hugely amused and the clerk now cowering under a fierce telling off from the manager.  
“Be still my beating heart,” Natasha smiled as he let her into the room. “I do so love being defended.”

He gave her a sideways look, not quite sure how to take her comment.

Natasha headed to the shower; Steve prowled around the room. He checked in with Clint who gave him a detailed status report. 

“Reasonably successful day,” Steve noted.

“Over and out,” Clint agreed cheerily. 

Natasha emerged from the bathroom toweling her damp hair. She was wearing his shirt which barely covered her bottom. He forced himself to look up to her face.

“Drink?” she asked, heading to the mini fridge.

“Hmm,” he demurred. “I wasn’t really planning on staying long. We should go.”

She snorted. “You paid for a night, Rogers,” she reminded him. “And what’s that guy going to think if we leave now?” She tossed him a mini bottle of champagne.

Steve rolled his eyes. “He’s going think, ‘that guy’s really fast, I should be charging by the half hour.’”

She laughed.

He was slightly startled; it wasn’t easy to make her laugh and he didn’t think the joke was that funny.

He sat on the bed and pulled off his boots; she curled up on the chair opposite, tucking her bare feet under and they drank their mini bottles.

“What’s the status report?” she asked.

He gave her a run down.

“Standing down?”

“Yup.”

“Does it bother you that your crew, your soldiers, are now out enjoying the trifecta?’

“The what?”

“Sex, drugs and booze?”

“Uh no.”

“But, they don’t affect you, do they?” Natasha asked. “Drugs? Booze? You don’t get drunk?”

“No, but I still like the taste,” he clinked his almost empty bottle with hers. “And what kind of commanding officer would I be if I begrudged them their down time? Soldiers need to relax.”

“What about you?”

He shrugged.

“Clint says that you’re not sleeping well.”

He scowled. “Clint has a big mouth.”

She drank the rest of her champagne and moved to sit next to him on the bed.

“Takes me a while to come down from that adrenaline high,” he explained slowly. “Can’t settle after battle.” He cricked his neck experimentally, a nervous habit.

“What have you tried?”

He made a wry face, “All the old wives’ remedies,” he answered. “Hot baths, camomile tea … Sometimes I run and run just to wear myself out.”

“That’s not easy.”

“No.” 

“You haven’t tried _everything_.”

He wasn’t about to answer that.

It was dark in the room; they hadn’t bothered to turn on any additional lights but with his enhanced vision, he could see her clearly. He wasn’t sure how much she could see of him.

She shifted and winced.

“You ok?”

“Just the usual post battle bumps and bruises,” she answered. “A few minor burns.”

“Let me see,” he suggested. “Maybe I’ve got something in my first aid kit.”

She lay back and pulled up the shirt.

She was wearing practical black boy briefs, no sign of lace, but damn sexy nonetheless.

He tried to focus on her skin, marred ever so slightly by a splatter trail of blisters. But he was finding it hard to concentrate.  
He was hyper aware. Everything seemed to have slowed down. On the street below, a car horn honked; out in the hall, the elevator dinged; in the room, the air conditioner cycled on. He could smell the shampoo she’d just used.

And he was very much aware of his own body’s reaction to her proximity. His breathing had sped up, his heart was racing … no doubt he was blushing despite the dark.

He met her eyes and found her watching him, a somewhat sardonic expression on her face. “Raising your blood pressure, old man?” she asked, raising one eyebrow as only she can. “Should I brush up on my CPR?”

He smiled faintly, hesitating.

She touched him then, running one finger along his jawline.

And he kissed her.

 

He woke feeling stiff and scratchy.

He forced his eyes open, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming in between the half closed curtains.

He sat up gingerly, clutching at the counterpane covering him. He’d fallen asleep on top of one bed, but someone had thrown the cover from the other bed over him.

That someone was sitting crossways in the chair, apparently reading a book.

“What time is it?” he croaked out, his throat still raspy.

“Good morning,” she said mildly, flipping pages in her book.

“Feels like I’ve slept for days,” he grunted. “Please tell me I haven’t slept through another century.”

She smiled, looking at him for the first time. “It’s about 10am,” she answered. “I’ve been waiting for you to get up so we can go for breakfast, but I was just about to give up.”

He did the math in his head. “I’ve been asleep for 15 hours?”

“That‘s just a little nap for you, isn’t it?”

He rolled his eyes and reached down for something to cover his nakedness. No point in struggling to get the damn suit on, it was crumpled at the foot of the bed.

“Clint brought a bag with a change of clothes,” Natasha indicated with a jut of her chin.

"Clint was here?”

“Hmm, I called him.”

He stared at her in horror. “And what the hell does he … what did you tell him?”

She grinned cheekily. “Don’t worry. I didn’t let him take photos or post them …”

He clutched his head.

“I met him at the door,” she assured him. “No reason for him to be suspicious.” 

He got up, grabbed the bag and stalked to the shower.

“Be quick,” she called after him. “I wasn’t joking about breakfast.”


End file.
